Page 1 of Switch!
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I want to escape. From the situation I’m in, from the stress and the monotony of each day, sometimes even from my own skin. I want to get away from it all. Especially now. The school hallways are crowded and loud, my fellow students buzzing with an excitement I don’t share. The end of the day seems to set them free, like they can finally resume their carefree lives. I understand their enthusiasm for wanting to leave this place, but I wish I had more to look forward to than microwaved pizza bites. Even though theyaredeliciously cheesy.
I look up from my feet, assessing how much farther I need to walk, and think back to a conversation I had with my grandfather before he died. As a devoutly religious man, he often tried to convince others of his beliefs. He must have felt that Heaven was the ultimate selling point because that’s what he focused on most, like a travel agent desperate to earn commission. “Just wait until you see the pearly gates upon your arrival. They’re magnificent! Beyond them, the streets are filled with bingo parlors and naked old ladies.” I have no idea what he actually said. I usually tuned him out, except for one occasion, when I was feeling particularly ornery and I asked, “What about the other place? Hell. What’s it like?”
His answer was grim. “Each man sees it different. Whatever you fear most, that’s what awaits you there. There is no escape from that hopeless place!”
I spent that night and many since trying to imagine what my own personal Hell would look like, starting with the entrance. Instead of pearly gates, maybe there would be a cave leading underground. And instead of Saint Peter’s judgmental ass, Hell’s bouncer would be a giant dog made of flames, sizzling drool dripping from its jaws in anticipation of its next meal. Or maybe an army of zombies instead, their hands bursting out of the ground to clutch at my ankles and drag me under so I would become one of them… but only after they sucked out my brain through my eye sockets. I imagined all sorts of gruesome scenarios. None of them stuck. Not until my junior year of high school, when it finally clicked. The entrance to my personal Hell would be glimmering glass doors that butterfly open to draw me in for seven hours of institutionalized torture each morning. Just the sight of the school entrance is enough to make me break into a cold sweat, because much like Hell, this place is guarded by a monster. One worse than anything my morbid imagination ever conjured up.
I’d make a run for it if not for the bottleneck of bodies that block the way. Leaving through any other door isn’t allowed. The school funnels us through the main entrance in the name of protecting everyone, which is laughable. Ineverfeel safe here. I’d need to turn invisible for that.
Without the benefit of a Romulan cloaking device or some other sci-fi tech, I keep close to one side of the hall as the crowd slowly trudges forward. I let my shoulder brush along the wall as a guide so I can open the book tucked beneath one arm and lose myself in it. What would I do without fiction? I never thought to ask my grandpa if Heaven changes for each person too. If so, the gates to mine would resemble the entrance to a library, and all the fictional characters I’ve ever loved would be there waiting, beckoning me inside.
“Travis! Buddy! Whatcha readin’?”
My own name always makes me tense when I’m at school. It usually means trouble. I pretend not to hear, because I already know who it is. I’m staring unseeing at the pages of my book, too on edge to read, when it’s ripped from my hands. I swipe at the air to get it back, but I’m not quick enough. I catch sight of Caleb McCain’s perfect smile just before his face disappears behind the cover. He’s holding the book open by the top of the spine, his massive paws clenching it roughly.
“What sort of faggot shit is this?” he cackles.
There’s nothing gay about the story. I doubt he bothered to read a single word. All he wants to do is upset me. Which he has. I’m close enough now to take the book back, but my arms remain at my sides. I don’t want to get punched by him. Not again. Even if I was feeling brave, Caleb isn’t alone. He’s always flanked by two of his friends, their laughter like braying donkeys as the book is held up high where I can’t reach it. Not that I’m dumb enough to try.
“You know what we do with shit,” Caleb says to me. “Don’t you?”
He darts across the hallway to the men’s restroom. I almost follow him and his friends until experience reminds me not to. At least here in the hall, a teacher might see and intervene if they start beating me up. I certainly don’t want to be alone in a room with them, so instead I keep walking to where the rows of lockers are separated by a classroom door. From there I peek around the corner and wait until Caleb and his friends reappear. When they do, they’re high-fiving each other while looking around for me, or maybe another victim. I hope they find someone else, as horrible as that sounds. Anyone but me. I can’t take it anymore, so I press myself against the lockers and hold my breath. Only once their victorious cackles fade away do I risk peering around the corner again.
They’re gone, so I hurry down the hall to the restroom while hoping they didn’t tear any pages out of the book or do other serious damage. Especially since it belongs to the public library downtown. The school doesn’t carry many Stephen King novels. I’ve already blown my way through his solo stuff, and now I’m starting in on his collaborations. I didn’t expect to like the book as much as I have so far.
I start my search in a trashcan that is eternally overflowing with used paper towels, shoving my arm deep inside with a grimace. I pull it out again when another guy strolls in. I don’t recognize him, but he’s already looking at me like I’m a creep for standing there. I decide to shut myself in one of the stalls until he leaves, glancing at the sinks and urinals along the way. No sign of the book. Maybe the ass-hats took it with them, hoping to make me beg for it later, but no. The situation is worse than that.
I duck into one of the stalls and check the toilet bowl. Sure enough, there’s my book, partially submerged in yellow water. The part sticking out is wet too. They must have taken turns pissing on it. So much for the adventures of Travelin’ Jack and his friend Wolfie. I stand there feeling sorry for myself until I remember that the book doesn’t belong to me. I can’t just abandon it. I’m not exactly eager to touch it either. The book is already wet, so I figure flushing will only make it cleaner. A full-sized hardback won’t go down the pipes, even with my bad luck.
I flush the toilet repeatedly and can’t help laughing at how ridiculous it looks jiggling back and forth in the toilet bowl. If only Caleb used his powers for good! I could get behind textbooks being treated this way. Math in particular. I grow somber again when moving to stage two of the rescue mission. Even though all visible traces of urine are gone, my nostrils still flare as I pluck the book out with two fingers and carry it dripping to the sink. The same guy is still in the restroom, fixing his hair in the mirror. He watches me rinse the book. Then he shakes his head.
“Dumbass.”
That’s all he says before he leaves. I know it shouldn’t matter to me. I don’t even know who he is. But for some reason it’s the straw that makes this camel want to slump to the floor where I can sob pathetically. Instead I force myself to stand up straight and consider my reflection as objectively as possible.
Is it the glasses? Is that all it takes to brand someone a nerd? My interests are super geeky, I won’t deny that, but it’s not like I broadcast them while walking down the hall. Is it because I’m gangly and suck at sports? Or maybe my shoulder-length black hair is too long and needs to be trimmed down to the conformist style of the semester. I actually like how it looks though. I offer the mirror a sympathetic smile, which doesn’t crack in response. The fleeting optimism slowly deflates until I resemble someone who appears downtrodden and dejected. That’s not who I am though. It’s only this place. High school is the worst. I just want to go home and—
The bus! Missing it will mean a long walk home. In sweltering heat. I grab coarse paper towels from the dispenser, wrap the book in them, and start running. The halls are emptier now. I make it outside just in time to see the doors of my bus close, so I sprint to catch it, stumbling at one point and nearly falling on my face. I’m nothing if not graceful. My arms pinwheel, helping me catch my balance and the driver’s attention. The brake lights glow red as the bus stops, the doors opening as I catch up to it. At least one thing went right today. The bus driver shakes her head as I climb onboard, like I’m an annoyance. Everyone is staring at me as I take a seat. I hear snorts and laughter, which I’m no stranger to.
I wallow in misery as the bus pulls away from the school. Normally I try not to, but some days are made for self-pity. I stare at the green seatback in front of me, the cheap material sliced, stretched, and scribbled on, which seems like a decent metaphor for my life. Even the hasty repairs look sad. With a heavy sigh, I glance down at the book still clutched in my hands and begin peeling away the paper towels, wanting to escape into the story, even if that means reading soggy pages. The library had the foresight to laminate the cover. That’s the good news. The bad is that the pages are so soaked they cling together, making them impossible to turn without tearing. Giving up, I rewrap the book and shove it in my backpack. Then I look around for a distraction.
The bus seats are high enough to slouch and not be seen. The only exception is the seat across the aisle from mine, which is occupied by Melvin Garcia. That’s no accident. I always choose someone who won’t bother me. Melvin is a safe bet, since he’s a fellow reader. We have that much in common and little else. I tried making friends with him once, but he’s a history buff—wars and politics mostly—so it became a choice between boredom or remaining lonely, and I’m used to being on my own.
Melvin is so deep into his book that he doesn’t notice me staring. I continue to study him. We’re similar in many ways. Both of us wear glasses. Mine are rectangular, his are round. Melvin’s skin is browner than mine, his body chubbier, but he’s no more attractive or athletic. He always dresses like he’s going to church, wearing a button-up shirt and tie in the warmer months and a full-on suit during the winter. I don’t know if that’s his preference or the will of his parents, but in clothes like that, I’d worry about being an even bigger target. Except he doesn’t seem to be. That’s the funny thing: Melvin is an outcast like me, but I never see him getting picked on. Ever! Is that because he’s merely competent instead of hopelessly clumsy when playing sports in PE? Do the formal clothes give him an air of authority? Or am I just marked somehow? Cursed. It doesn’t seem fair. I wish we could trade places. Whatever the difference is between us, I’d rather be him than me. That way I’d be left alone to read. I wouldn’t have to suffer all the humiliations I’ve been through, or start every weekday with gut-wrenching dread. Anonymously uncool instead of unanimously disliked. God that sounds good! I’d give absolutely anything to switch places with him. Maybe even my soul.
My head swims suddenly, and I feel like I’m going to puke. I’m certain I will, because everything inside of me rises up. And then it spills out. Out of my mouth? No. Onto the floor? I’m not sure. The bus lurches and I’m flung across the aisle. At least I think that’s what happened. I seem to have landed on my butt, a padded seat beneath me. I somehow have an open book in my lap, and even though I’m staring down at it confusion, my vision is too blurry to read the words. I try to reassess my surroundings, but I can’t seem to move, and what little sound I hear is muffled and distorted. What the hell is wrong with me? Did I hit my head? That would make sense if the bus was involved in an accident, but we’re still in motion. Why can’t I move my body? Did my spinal cord snap, leaving me paralyzed? From the bus swerving? I’m notthatweak! I’m still staring down at the book, baffled that it could have landed in my lap so perfectly, when I begin to freak out. I just want to move! Even an inch! I try to lift my head to see what’s going on around me. No luck. I keep trying, my panic building until it becomes overwhelming. I feel like I’m losing my sanity when I hear a pop and the world returns to normal. My chin finally responds to my commands and rises slightly. I’m staring at the back of the bus seat again, my vision clear. I reach up to adjust my glasses and notice how my cheeks press against the frames. They never did that before. I move my hand away, the brown skin darker than normal. My fingers are too pudgy, and when I rest them on the pages of the book, the paper isn’t wet. I close the cover, still not understanding until the title comes into focus.The Invasion ofNormandy. Beneath these words is a black and white photo of a soldier scurrying along a beach.
Western allies stormed the beaches of Normandy on June sixth, nineteen forty-four, as part of Operation Overlord, which remains the largest amphibious invasion to this day.
This information passes through my mind, but not in my usual thinking voice. Instead it sounds like Melvin narrating, which makes sense because this is his book, his hand, and his glasses! The windows of the bus are on my right now, instead of the left, and when I look across the aisle…
I see myself.
Shiny black hair hangs on either side of my forehead like curtains, the ends tucked behind my ears. I notice how skinny and small I appear, especially against the massive padded seats. My mouth is hanging open, my head hanging to one side. The dark eyes that come from my father’s Native American heritage are open and unfocused, staring at nothing. My first thought is that I’m dead. Or dying? This has to be an oxygen-starved hallucination! I suck in air and feel the dress-shirt collar grow tighter against my thick neck, which is weird, because I can see that I’m wearing a T-shirt. Then it finally clicks.
I got my wish. I’ve become Melvin somehow.
